


Birthday Blues

by ApexOnHigh



Category: Foo Fighters, The Police (Band)
Genre: Cooking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-22 23:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20000335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApexOnHigh/pseuds/ApexOnHigh
Summary: On a difficult day, Taylor makes plans to do something special.





	Birthday Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sidewinder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/gifts).



Taylor awoke, on this particular Sunday morning, and found himself alone in bed. That wasn’t particularly unusual or worrisome in and of itself, as Stewart tended to be more of a morning person than he’d ever been. Stewart sometimes rose early to catch up on the news or get in some of his egghead reading in peace and quiet,or even duck into the studio to jot down ideas if inspiration had struck overnight. 

Taylor hoped it was one of those reasons today. But he suspected something else was contributing to Stewart’s restlessness and absence, given what specific day it was.

Taylor lingered in bed for a bit, in case Stewart came back to join him for some morning fun—or even just more sleep. It was the weekend, after all, and neither of them had anything in particular to do today, nowhere else they had to be. They should be relaxing and appreciating this rare break in both of their schedules which allowed them this time together. No tours, no recording sessions, no other major commitments on either of their parts were coming up for several weeks. That was a blessing, to be sure.

After a while, though, the desire for a good, strong cup of coffee (if he wasn’t going to get a good, strong fuck) became too much for Taylor to resist. He got up with a lazy stretch and then headed downstairs to the kitchen, hopeful to find a hot, fresh pot awaiting him. 

That desire at least was well met, the aroma of Stewart’s favorite dark roast heavy in the air. Stewart was at the kitchen table sipping at a very large mug of his own. He was reading something on his laptop, the weekend news pundits prattling away on the tv in the background.

“Morning,” Taylor said, coming up behind Stewart for a hug and light kiss to the top of his head.

“Oh hey, morning. Did I wake you? It’s—” Stewart checked his watch and frowned “—barely past eight.”

“Nah. Woke up on my own. And since you weren’t around to give me reason to stay in bed…”

“Sorry. I was feeling restless.”

“S’ok.” Taylor went to fill and fix up his own cup of coffee. He didn’t say he knew why today, of all days, Stewart would be feeling “restless”...among other things.

Today was the 25th of April. It was Ian’s birthday. 

Only Ian was no longer around for them to celebrate that day with him.

Stewart’s brother was gone four years now, but Taylor knew it was a loss he still suffered keenly, particularly on important dates like this one.

For now, though, Taylor didn’t mention it. He sat down at the table and feigned interest in the debate on the tv while he let the coffee revive him, and he considered the day ahead. 

Ian had always been up for a good birthday celebration, whether for himself or anyone else. Hell, Ian was good for a party whenever someone suggested one, for _whatever_ reason—even no reason at all. But his _own_ birthday? Well. Taylor was thankful he’d been hanging around Stewart and the greater Copeland clan long enough to have experienced those festivities for himself.

Ian’s birthday bashes would often kick off with the Annual (i.e., whenever they felt like it) Copeland “Polf” Championship. Polf was a game Stewart and Ian had invented years before, either while drunk, stoned, or a bit (or a lot) of both. Polf was part golf, part polo, and all around insanity involving racing golf carts instead of horses and definitely _not_ for the faint of heart. The rules shifted based on how much they thought they could get away with before getting kicked off the golf course by other annoyed players.

Taylor had never been able to figure it all out, yet one year he’d somehow managed to win the championship. That was, until Ian broke into his car the next day to steal the trophy. Theft was also, he had learned, a major part of the Polf tradition.

But after mischief, fun and games, the party would usually roll on over to Ian’s club, Backstage Cafe. There’d be too much food and too loud of a band, and you never knew who might stop by to join the fun. Drinks would be flowing and the celebrations would go on until last call, or the _real_ police were called to break up the madness.

Those had been good times, even after Ian’s diagnosis and first round of battling cancer. It was the vibrancy and joy with which Ian lived his life that made it so hard to accept he was now gone, especially for those who had loved him the most. 

Like Stewart.

And Taylor, as much as he loved Stewart, struggled to know how best to be there for him when the hurt was closest to the surface again, the way it was now. Taylor had never lost a sibling or an especially close family member like that before. Sometimes felt at a loss for how to be supportive without either coming across too strong, or feeling like he wasn’t doing enough. He didn’t want to see callous, but he also didn’t want to be overbearing. 

“Any plans for today?” Taylor asked, trying to be cautious as well as casual. “Weather looks good for a bike ride, maybe..? Or a drive along the coast...”

“Yeah, it does look like a nice day. But actually…” Stewart paused, closing his laptop with a sigh. He looked across to Taylor and reached for his hand, giving it a small squeeze. “If you don’t mind—and I know we haven’t had a lot of time to ourselves lately—I think I need some time on my own. Today, it’s…” 

“Ian’s birthday. I know. I get it. You want me to clear out of your hair for a while, I can go—” 

“No, you do what you want. Relax. Stay here, or take that ride, like you said. Go have some fun for me. I just have a few things to take care of, some other places to go today. Clear my head, pay some respects.”

“Of course. No problem.”

“Thanks.” Stewart across the table for a kiss and a caress, trying to smile but not doing a very convincing job of it. “In fact I’m going to get going soon, jump in the shower that you’re up. But I’ll be home later and we’ll get something nice for dinner, okay? You pick where. Somewhere we haven’t been for a while.”

Taylor nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

And it wouldn’t be a bad one, all things considered. But another thought had crossed Taylor’s mind earlier, while he lay in bed, and if he had the day ahead mostly to himself he _might_ be able to pull it off.

~ * ~

Taylor would be the first to admit that his talents in the kitchen were... rudimentary, at best. Sure, he could throw a steak or some burgers on the grill pan and not burn the neighborhood down. He could even put together an acceptable pasta dinner not involving sauce from a jar. But beyond that? Cooking just wasn’t a skill he’d put much time or effort into developing.

Neither was cooking really Stewart’s thing, either, though combined they could muddle together some edible meals for nights when they didn’t feel like going out or ordering in. No, Ian had been the one with the culinary chops to envy, a brother and friend who had been a welcome guest if he said he’d make or bring over dinner. He’d known his way around quite a few British classics, from comforting pub grub to more special occasion meals like roast leg of lamb with Yorkshire pudding. He’d been the one to introduce Taylor to some more interesting Middle Eastern dishes, too, ones that both Copeland brothers said took them straight back to their childhood.

But the dish Taylor knew Stewart had loved the most was Ian’s elaborate “Lancashire Hot Pot”. It was an old recipe, like an Irish stew, Ian had explained, with the addition of several more unusual ingredients. Lamb was the star of the dish but it also featured oysters ( _“once cheaper than the lamb, but now the luxury”_ ) and a rich brown gravy under a crisp, sliced-potato crust. Ian would only serve it at Backstage on certain Sundays because it was so much work. Taylor recalled Stewart would always get it if they were there and it on the specials board.

Ian would also sometimes make it for Stewart’s own birthday. That’s why it had come to Taylor’s mind that morning, as he’d been lying in bed. Maybe, he’d thought, he could surprise Stewart by making it himself as a way to remember and pay tribute to Ian on his birthday.

Thankfully Ian had written out all his most favored recipes and Stewart had a copy of them... _somewhere_ in this kitchen, Taylor knew. It took a while poking around, after Stewart had headed out of the house, for Taylor to find them. He did, in a tattered notebook tucked between some rarely-opened basic cookbooks. 

This was Ian’s own, original book, hand-written and grease-stained as only it should be. Flipping through the pages brought back a lot of good memories, even if touched by sadness. He found and read over the instructions for the Hot Pot, frowning as he realizedhow much work he was in for—and how likely he was to fuck it up. Ian did write out both a “complex” and an “easy” way to make the dish. While Taylor would have liked to do the full, more complex one, he thought he’d better stick with the “easy” one. That was going to be hard enough for him with his limited skills.

But it couldn’t be _that_ hard, could it? Not with Ian’s instructions, which did seem pretty complete and detailed. Taylor wished he’d been paying more attention the one time Ian had come by and made it here on a day off, instead of listening to all his raucous stories about, well, everything else.

Taylor jotted down a shopping list for the dish, which at least wasn’t too long. Onions, carrots, mushrooms, potatoes, parsley, bay leaves, some other herbs. The meat could be trickier—he needed lamb kidneys as well as lamb shoulder chops, if he could find them. And fresh oysters. Well, if any place was going to have everything he needed, he figured it would be their local Whole Foods. He could get some other nice things for the meal there while he was at it. Maybe a nice cake, because he sure wasn’t going to attempt baking. 

~ * ~

Stewart couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty about taking off on his own for most of the day, but it was something he’d felt the need to do. Some people dealt with grief best in the company of other loved ones; he preferred doing it solo.

He hadn’t even really had a set plan as far as what he _wanted_ or intended to do; it seemed to come together as he got in his car and started driving. Almost on instinct he ended up in Beverly Hills, passing by where Backstage once was, but he didn’t stop, didn’t want to go inside. Gone was the old bar and everything Ian had collected in it. Now it was some kind of earthy-crunchy juice bar serving wheatgrass and smoothies to a very different clientele.

From there he did end up at the one place he knew he wanted to visit today: the memorial park and cemetery where Ian had been buried. He wasn’t one to make a point to stop by regularly, but he felt on a day like today _someone_ should. To pay respects, to leave something and to reflect on the moment.

From the park he headed to the beach, at Santa Monica. He debated ringing up Andy to see if he was home, but then he felt a bit guilty. If he wanted company now, he knew someone who would be waiting to see him. So he’d walk the beach for a while longer, trying to remember the better days with Ian instead of lingering on the bad ones near the end. And then he’d make his way back where he belonged. 

~ * ~

Stewart was home a little after five o’clock. As he stepped inside, he could smell something delicious wafting through the air. Delicious and... _familiar_ , an aroma that triggered a strong sense of comfort and nostalgia, though he couldn’t place it at first. So he headed into the kitchen to investigate.

There he found the last thing he’d have expected: Taylor, cooking. At least he guessed that had to be the cause of the scene of chaos he encountered. Bowls and cutting boards covered the kitchen table. More dishes and bowls overflowed in the sink. Amidst it all, Taylor was spinning around cursing to and at no one in particular.

“Goddammit where the fuck is the—oh hey, Stew!”

“Hey yourself. Do I want to know what’s going on?”

“Sorry about the mess, I um… Surprise? I wanted to make something special tonight.”

“Well whatever it is it smells amazing. What is it?”

“It’s Lancashire Hot Pot. Ian’s recipe. I wanted...it’s nowhere near as good as his, I’m sure, but... Hopefully I won’t give us both food poisoning and dishonor his memory.”

“Taylor, this is…I don’t even know what to say.”

“Just tell me you’re not pissed off.”

“Why would I be? This is incredibly considerate...if messy. And as fine of a tribute to Ian as I can imagine.”

“You say that before tasting it. Which…” he paused to check the clock, “is going to take another half hour.” 

“It’s the thought that counts, no matter what. And that gives me time to help clean up in here first.” He went over to give Taylor a long hug and a kiss. “Thank you. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Maybe today wouldn’t be such a bad day after all.


End file.
